Black Flames and Blank Mind
by TheOneTheOnlyGajeelRedfox
Summary: Zancrow isn't dead. Kind of. Suddenly waking on Tenrou island after seven empty years, he finds that he has to learn how to live life without his guild, and without his humanity.
1. Forgive Me, Man Whose Name I Didn't Know

His back hit the floor with a sickening crunch, but he could feel no pain. Facing up to the sky, all he could focus on were the stars that flickered and danced above him, steadily fading as his body grew unresponsive. Head topped with tar-black hair, a pale, sorrowful face swam in front of Zancrow as he felt his eyes slowly close of their own accord. He wasn't ready to die… This was too early, much, much before his time. He would never be able to talk to Meredy again… To apologise for the things that he had said… Instantly regretting what he had told her, he realised that he could never take it back. Anyone else he really couldn't care about… But…He regretted hurting her with everything that he had. Eyes shut now, his body numb and frigid, his last breath rattled out from between his cold lips, knowing that death would soon claim him as his own. He wondered what Hell would be like. Zancrow was too weak to manage a bitter smile now, and as he reluctantly slipped into the black, he heard that Goddamn demon's voice whisper: 'Forgive me… Man whose name I did not know'.

Black wasn't so bad. Zancrow had no idea how long he had been there, or if he was really there at all. Really, he wasn't sure if he was alive or not; certainly he had no body. He was just sort of… Existing. He didn't have eyes but he could see all. He didn't have ears but he could hear all. It was sort of peaceful. Zancrow had no idea who he was, where he was, or what he was. There were no memories at all, and anyway, having no memories wasn't a problem in any way.

Becoming oddly curious at this point, he decided to look around himself, forgetting that his body was absent. But yet somehow, he could feel eyes flickering under eyelids. That was strange. Five minutes he could have sworn he could not see or touch… Hang on. _Five minutes ago. _Time. He could feel time passing. That was different. He sighed, forgetting again that he seemed to have no body, yet he felt air whistle through lungs, the incredibly relief of oxygen rushing into a body. Shocked, he felt himself gasping and choking as his lungs seemed to be making up for lost time. Wait, what? He definitely had lungs now, and eyes, and a mouth, and fingertips that started to twitch now as he fought for the sweet relief of cold air that pierced his insides. More and more sensations bombarded Zancrow as he writhed, trying to escape those who fiercely tried to disturb his peace. The feeling of grass and mud under his fingernails that scraped the dirt, the sound of the birds singing, but to him, sounded like screaming on his eardrums, the cold, hard ground beneath his back, the warmth of the sun on his face, the metallic taste of the winter air, the feel of grass, rustling of trees, smell of earth, sound, smell, touch, taste… Zancrow's eyes snapped open as he could not stand the attack any more. The harsh winter sunlight stung his eyes, and he squinted as he tried to make out the world around him.

It suddenly struck him how _green _everything was. He attempted to sit up, but his body felt like lead. Lying down on his back, he took in as much as he could, hoping it would jumpstart his memory. For you see, he had forgotten everything about himself – he had no memories that he could instantly recall, no faces that he could remember straight away. He couldn't even remember his own _name_, let alone anyone else's.

After a moment of resting, he felt pretty strong, and able to explore his situation a little. He pulled his stiff body up, wincing a little. Had he been in a fight or something? He looked down at himself, at the ragged clothes, and decided that this must be the case. Perhaps some idiot had knocked him out in a duel and just left him here. Too rot. Lovely. On an island though? An odd choice for a battlefield… At this point, he had merely assumed that he had temporary amnesia, and was not concerned, confident his memories would return with time. Zancrow wondered if he could talk. Worth a shot. His tongue curled slightly awkwardly around the words, but he managed to force out a good curse. Grinning at his success, he angrily let out a good string of curses that anyone would be proud of. His grin stretched wider, and he looked down, pinched, pulled out and examined his tatty clothing. 'Must have been a nasty fight, huh?' He questioned to nobody in particular. His smile grew malevolent at the thought – he could remember, at least, that he had always loved a good brawl. Catching sight of the black, heart-shaped mark on the right-hand side of his chest, he frowned. He could never remember getting a tattoo. Then again, he couldn't remember anything, so he wasn't one to talk. Suddenly, he felt a sharp shock inside of himself, and memories poured into his mind, barely a pause between them.

He saw a tall man looming above him, saying words that Zancrow could not hear, and a face he could not see. Feeling small, he wondered, was this a childhood memory? Looking around, he could see other people in the memory, and his mind focused intently on each one briefly. They were all definitely older than he was in the memory – they all towered above him… Except one. The memory concentrated on them the hardest, ignoring the tall man, but, he thought it was a girl; _her _face remained tantalisingly a mystery. For the life of him, Zancrow could not work out who this little one was. Without any kind of warning, the thought flickered and died, and a new one promptly started.

The air to this one was different, more macabre, and the tall man once again leered over him. He, however, felt taller and stronger this time, and certainly more confident. The man offered him a goblet, presumably with liquid inside. Hand oddly shaking, he reached out and grasped the smooth metal in his hot hand and his mind seemed to dwell on the fact that it was so unnaturally, morbidly cold. He raised it to his lips without question, and drank it in a few gulps. It was foul, thick and 'wrong-tasting', but he daren't show his weakness to the man. ('Who the hell is this guy anyway?' Zancrow thought impatiently) This memory too, faded away, and Zancrow was left standing, confused, and more than a little concerned, staring at the mark on his chest. All that he remembered of the man was these small memories, and the fact he felt deep respect for him, and yet terrible hatred at the same time. That was certainly and odd mix of emotions, and as Zancrow's stomach growled, he wondered what on Earthland had been in that cup, and why he couldn't remember. He knew that he could use magic; that he was a wizard living in Fiore, but beyond that, he really knew very little. Other people were really a mystery, and worse than that, he himself was a mystery.

Zancrow was really starting to get painful hunger pangs now, and he knew he had to eat now or suffer the consequences. The hunger grew steadily worse as he was searching hopelessly for food and he was dully aware of how dry his mouth was. His lips felt cracked, sore and dry, tongue lolling around in his mouth like and old piece of sandpaper, scratching uncomfortably against his parched mouth. He must have been lying there for days – the fight had obviously been fierce, and he had amnesia or something freaky like that. He was a little worried about his situation, but not overly concerned. After all, how bad could it be? He knew how to use magic, that's all he needed to survive, really. Oh thank God. There was clear stream up ahead. Zancrow pulled his aching, tired, semi-dead-already body up towards the source of water, stooped down, and scooped relief into his mouth. He didn't care that he was scooping so fast and messily that he was dripping water all down his front, he only cared about the fact that he was so damn _thirsty, _and the water was cool and fresh, quenching that desire.

Rocking backwards and sitting heavily down when he was finished, he wiped his mouth with an over-exaggerated motion and glanced into the river absent-mindedly. A slim face with sharp teeth and vermillion eyes that seemed to pierce right through him stared back. Zancrow sat stunned, then brought his face closer to the water to get a better look. 'What the hell?' he whispered softly, as he could not believe the sight in front of him. 'That's… Me?' He drew even closer to the smooth surface, smiling widely, emphasising his sharp canines. 'Well I'm a handsome devil, I'll give myself that.' He boasted. Zancrow was not the type to ever take something truly seriously, and this situation was no exception. Letting out a horrible laugh that sounded more cruel than any real expression of mirth, he dipped a long, pale finger into the clear pool, causing it to ripple and distort the image that was his face. Something, most likely the horrible voice of reason that lurked in the back of his mind, told him that he certainly wasn't 'normal'. After all, 'normal' humans didn't have sharp fangs, and they certainly did _not _have bright red eyes with rings in them. Zancrow then began to ponder about whether he was actually human all, and in the state he was in at the moment, he really could not work it out at all. He felt his anger and frustration spike, and as it reached a crescendo, he struck out with his fist at the first thing he could reach. This happened to be a tree, an old gnarled thing with small sprigs of new growth erupted all over its pock-marked and rough surface. When times got tough, all he could do was lash out, and as he let his fist crush into the ancient trunk, scorch marks circling the site of impact, he knew that he was just being stupid. Hitting out like this would solve nothing. He would have to approach this differently, without letting his temper get the better of him. If only he knew how much he had changed! Before all of this, he would have struck out in temper without sparing a single thought for the consequences of his actions. Maiming and injuring others was easily excusable, and burning people's belongings, world, and livelihoods away was completely acceptable in the eyes of Zancrow the God Slayer. He would even enjoy the chaos, standing in the centre of it all like a demon of fire, a god of destruction, screaming his evil laughter to the sky whilst the pathetic mortals scrambled around him, trying desperately to get away. Perhaps this experience had changed his attitude… Just a little. Of course he knew none of this; he was still a mystery to even himself. Breathing deeply, massaging the fist that had slammed into the tree, the God of Destruction sighed heavily.

Casting his gaze around the forest to distract himself, a flower caught his eye. He wasn't sure what about it grabbed and held his attention so fiercely (And he was not exactly the sensitive kind to notice how pretty a flower was), but there must have been something about the rosy pink blush of the petals, something in the contours of it on the whole – It had an aggressive, spikey aura, reminding Zancrow a little of himself, but enraged him beyond belief. An image of a face brushed at the corners of his memory, so clear, distinct… Yet somehow clouded… Try as he might, Zancrow could not fully make out the facial features, but he could remember the hair. A cherry-blossom-pink shock of it that seemed to annoy him every time the image jumped in front of his eyes. But no name leapt into his mind, no spark of recognition, not sudden burst of understanding. However, it was obvious to Zancrow that he loathed this human beyond belief. Awful, terrible, blinding, white-hot hatred coursed through his veins, and he hoped with every fibre of his being that he would meet Pinky again. He wanted to beat him down. With everything that he had. He could not work out why he wanted this so much – It just seemed like the right thing to do, the emotion strong enough to contradict his earlier thoughts of peace. There must be a reason why, and the rage he felt clouded his sense of reasoning. This person, this mage (he had now realised), would fall by his hand. Zancrow swore that he would. He had to get his revenge… Revenge… Yes… That was it… Ugh… His hands clenched his temples as he desperately tried to remember, memories flickering around his mind, just out of reach… He wanted revenge. Not for himself, but for who? A word echoed in his head, deafeningly loud, making him sway with dizziness. 'Master'. He wanted vengeance for his 'master'. Master of what? ...Pinky… Threatened to… Take down his… Master? Was that it?

Confusion was the only answer that he seemed to arrive at time and time again, at every turn there was a dead end. But the conclusion he had half-toyed with, seemed to be the right one. At any rate, it made sense. If someone had threatened one he felt, well, loyalty to (He shuddered involuntarily at the thought, imagining himself as a puppy, forever at the heel of its master), he would most likely feel a certain degree of rage towards them. And he had been in a fight… Wait! He hadn't _lost_ had he? To Pinky? Not a chance. But it made sense, unfortunately. That's why his clothes were tatty, and why he was confused (He didn't have a sore head though, but he must have had a hefty blow to that area at some point, that made sense). And now, he wanted… Revenge? Did Pinky badmouth his master? That would be a sensible course of events.

This 'Pinky' guy and himself were about to fight, or were fighting.

Pinky badmouthed his master.

He did not take this lightly and swore revenge if he hurt his master.

He lost (Shudder).

He woke up, without the majority of his memories, in his current situation.

Satisfied with his reasoning, a smug smile crept over Zancrow's thin face, and his glee was sharply and rudely interrupted by the howling groans that his stomach was making. Grimly, he placed a hand on his warm belly and felt it snarling underneath his touch. The water had quenched his thirst, but done little to fill his stomach with some actual sustenance. He knew how his magic worked, how to fight with it, how to use it, and in order for Zancrow to recover a lot of magical energy, and to feel full, he would have to consume some fire. But finding it was the problem. Where did you find fire in the middle of a remote island? Looking up through the dense tree crowns, Zancrow could see that dusk was fast approaching now, though it was almost impossible to detect in the dank foliage of the island. As the forest truly started to become grasped in the inky claws of the night, faintly and occasionally punctuated with the odd glimmer of a faraway star, Zancrow had finally located a source of food. He'd learnt a long time ago that if he used the remaining dregs of his magic power to raise his own body temperature through the roof, things that he touched would burst into flame, and he would be able to consume the fire to replenish his own magic. Thankfully, he had retained that knowledge – He still remembered everything about his own magic perfectly. He had managed, also, to luck into finding some fruit he believed was edible. It _looked_ okay… Shrugging, he took a huge bite, expecting his mouth to fill with all sorts of repulsive tastes and textures. Surprisingly enough, the fruit was sweet and juicy, making Zancrow's stomach moan loudly. 'Oh, shut up,' he mumbled, only half to himself as he hastily tucked into the rest of the oddly wonderful fruit.

Refraining from eating the flames he had made straightaway, he had decided to leave them to hopefully spread a little further, and to make some more food to consume. Also, he liked his food roasted. Really roasted. As in, 'burnt to cinders' roasted. Grasping the core of the what-looked-to-be-a-sort-of-apple, Zancrow firmly thrust his hand into the fire that was steadily creeping along the tree that he had decided to burn. The apple almost burnt away to nothing right away – The fire was suffocatingly hot – But Zancrow merely stayed still, not recoiling or flinching at the extreme heat, not finding that his fingers were turning black, charred by the fire that licked at his palm. No, he was very comfortable and content letting the fire snake up his arm that was still in the heart of the greedy beast that was the flame, swallowing anything in its path.

The tree smouldered gently as the flames consumed it rapidly; the crown was flickering with an eerie warm glow, scaring any creatures or ghasts away with its terrible power. But the Flame God refused to be eaten by the monstrosity. No matter how much the orange flickered at his wrist, his arm, his shoulder, his face; the God of Fire would only smile at the warmth tickling his body. When the beast tried to burn his flesh, he only revelled in the heat the monster had granted him. The beast would be tamed, and the Flame God its master. The God plunged both hands into the beast now, and the tendrils of red curled around his arms in an almost friendly way. The fire was a slave to the Fire God, and would do his bidding. With an odd sound, an inhuman, unearthly sound like a firestorm sweeping over a hapless forest, the Flame God drew in the fire, and the beast went willingly, eager to serve his master. Full now, his deed done, Zancrow patted his stomach in a satisfied manner. He felt triumphant in the fact that he had actually managed to feed himself successfully, and not raze the whole island to the ground in the process.

Despite all of the fire he had consumed, he knew that his magic levels were still very low. He needed somewhere safe to sleep, and as quickly as possible, so he could recover as much energy as he could. Zancrow glanced behind him at the path of destruction he had left in his wake. Two trees were completely burnt, and the crisp grass was no longer crisp nor green, more an ugly shade of torched black… Perhaps he should get as far away from here as possible. The island might be remote, but someone was bound to find this at some point, and he wanted to be long gone by then. He looked up. The stars were bright tonight. Quite nice really. Pretty. 'A shooting star', he said with a touch of irony to his voice, 'Would be really cliché right now. After a couple more seconds staring at the heavens, Zancrow decided that he really needed to get some sleep. He had found a good, strong, sturdy tree to support his weight in minutes, and this one was an evergreen, so it would keep him hidden (He knew he was quite memorable, so it would make sense to keep a low profile. Also, the thought of someone finding him whilst he slept was not a pleasant one).

As he curled up slightly in the heights of the pine, he wondered what he would do next. Get off the island and find Pinky sounded sort of sensible, but he wasn't really sure. Turning over, and turning over his thoughts, he speculated, for about the hundredth time today, who he was. Was he 'good' or 'bad'? Did he have a family, or friends he couldn't even remember? Maybe he was a loner. Probably not, he hated being lonely (Though he would never admit to that), and he quite liked being around others (Again, not that he'd admit to it). His thoughts turned to dreams as his eyelids drooped, his arms went slack and hung at his sides, and he slipped into the world of sleep he craved so much.

* * *

_**I really hoped that you enjoyed reading my first chapter of my first fan fiction! I've always had my suspicions about Zancrow, and I thought that maybe I should write something about that. I've got a few more ideas that I'd like to put in, so more chapters on the way. Thank you very much for reading!**_


	2. Unexpected Visitors

**_So here it is! Chapter 2! A rude awakening turns into some uninvited guests..._**

* * *

High up in a tall pine on the island of Tenrou, slept a young man. A young man with long thick blonde hair, ragged clothes… With bright red eyes and a dangerous addiction for fire. Along with the case of amnesia, you end up with Zancrow, who was slowly awaking to the sound of birds, and the sun hanging low and orange in the rosy-pink dawn sky. He had really woken far too early, and his heavy limbs confirmed that fact. The horrible shrill sound of those damn birds was really starting to drive Zancrow insane, he hated nature, and he was grumpy at being awoken such an ungodly hour. Rubbing his eyes moodily, scraping away at the grit that had built up there from the few hours of sleep that he had had, he yelled at the top of his lungs: 'SHUT UP!'

The twittering immediately ceased, and Zancrow, now satisfied with the level of noise, squirmed slightly to get comfortable, and closed his eyes. He supposed nature hated him too. Heh. Good. The world around him was far too quiet, even if everything _did _hate him. Surely by now, something desperate would have approached him for food, or accidentally come across him whilst he was drinking at the river. He liked it this way – he loathed nature, nature loathed him. Smiling a little, he realised that was completely different to that girl in the old story he remembered reading (Little by little, useless memories such as this were starting to appear in his mind, which pleased Zancrow to no ends), the one where all the creatures of the wood loved her and helped her with work. Maybe he should start singing as well, to attract all the animals of the forest. Zancrow snorted with laughter and relaxed deeper into the crook he was resting in.

Not five minutes later, he heard a twig snap. This wouldn't have been a concern of any kind, there _were _creatures on Tenrou Island, even if they did give him a wide berth – except for there were voices emanating from the direction from which Zancrow _knew_ the 'snap' had come from. The voices were too far away to make out clearly, just some indistinct muttering. Despite his sharp hearing (It wasn't quite on Dragon Slayer level, but it was still damn good hearing), he could not locate _exactly_ where they were coming from, as they were still a long way away. However, he could tell that there were two of them, one large and the other average sized from the sounds of their voices.

Zancrow was perched as close as he dared to the end of the bough he had slept on. He didn't know how much of his weight it would support, and he didn't care to find out. The last thing he needed now was to be discovered, and these people (there was a slim chance but even so…), might actually know him. In a crouch, leaning forwards, with his head in the air like a dog that had caught whiff of an interesting scent, Zancrow listened as hard as he could to the conversation. It was difficult because the dense trees all around completely absorbed the sound, and even though he was slightly above the crown of most of the trees, he could really hear nothing but muttering. They'd stopped talking now… How irritating. The two were close enough to him now that their footsteps were audible to him. There! His head snapped in their direction. They were in his line of sight now as they walked in stony silence. As he watched, he realised that something about them was oddly familiar. One was huge and pale, with jet-black hair, and from what Zancrow could detect from earlier, a heavy speech impediment. The other was smaller, though perhaps a little taller than himself, with slick grey hair assembled into a sort of quiff, with glasses and a pair of leather gloves. They were so familiar… Yet they were complete strangers… Wait. They had paused now, directly underneath him, and they hadn't even spied him! Zancrow looked down with glee. Idiots. Were they blind or something? It was an evergreen tree that he was hiding in to be fair to them, but even so, he was fairly prominent. Zancrow wondered whether they were messing with him, and was seriously debating with himself on whether he should screech at them to go away or not, when the smaller began to speak:

'We couldn't find him. Not anywhere. We searched all over this land, encapsulated by the ocean, and nowhere did we find the empty shell of our fallen comrade…'

Zancrow leaned forward interestedly. "Fallen comrade?" This guy was difficult to understand (What's with all the flowery language, huh?), but the topic was certainly interesting. Rolling his eyes, the grey-hair had launched into another overly-descriptive speech, he hastened to hear more:

'Though we could not find his shell, his spirit will certainly live on… May your ever rest in peace, Zancrow, my friend…'

'U-uh-uh-uh yeah…' his huge companion replied, clearly even more lost than Zancrow was. Not listening, the gloved poet lamented further about his lost friend, and Zancrow tried desperately to interpret his complex vocabulary. His friend's '_shell'? _That meant 'body', he guessed. And all this talk about his spirit 'living on'… What was his name again? Zancrow, wasn't it? These two were looking for the body of their fallen friend, Zancrow. Or maybe not. Grey-hair was horribly difficult to understand, and he was getting sick of him yammering away under the tree he was trying to sleep in. His curiosity had been satisfied now, and he had no need to let them stay here any longer – they had worn out their welcome.

Taking the two by surprise, Zancrow leapt from the bough of the tree, falling straight down and landing directly in front of them. If he was being honest, he hadn't really thought this through, as he often made decisions on a whim, but he just wanted them to leave. He was exhausted, and he desperately needed some more sleep.

As he landed smoothly in front of them, bending his knees to absorb the impact of the fall, the two's eyes widened – whether in shock horror, it was hard to tell. Zancrow, taking no notice of this, advanced, holding up flaming fists.

'D'ya mind leaving?'

Receiving no answer except the flummoxed looks of surprise on their faces, he decided to speak again:

'I said: D'ya mind leaving? I happen to be sleeping nearby, and your incessant blabbering is keeping me awake.'

Blank looks.

'You're really startin' to get on my nerves now. Say summat, would ya?'

When he did not even manage to rouse one word from them, Zancrow sighed theatrically and lowered his hands that were bunched into fists, ready to strike. He knew that he shouldn't let his guard down, but he was really too drained to care. He had turned around and was starting to scale his tree when the grey-haired man spoke:

'Y-you're… Alive?!'

Zancrow was at a loss for words, not sure what was going on. Unhinging his jaw that he had clenched shut in a scowl, he attempted to word a reply:

'Huh? Yeah I'm alive… Look at me.'

He gestured widely to himself.

'Do I look dead to you?'

Suddenly, horror dawning on him, he hastily tried to speak again.

'Do I… Kn-'

But he was sharply cut off by Grey-hair.

'How did you manage to survive, Zancrow?!'

Zancrow stood stunned, numb with shock, his worst fears confirmed. Oh crap. He did know them. _He _was Zancrow. The guy who had supposedly died. _He was Zancrow. _How did he survive? He wished that he knew… Perhaps the gods had taken mercy upon him? Did he just have amnesia? Or could he rise from the dead? Was he not human?! Why could he not remember anything? He clearly had a life before he woke up… No wonder these two seemed so familiar. Thoughts swirled like a torrent in Zancrow's head as he realised that he had to make a convincing conversation or these two would soon discover that he could barely remember anything… An unpleasant fluttering in his stomach told him to be wary – he had a feeling that he could be manipulated and fed lies… The discomfort inside of him somehow knew what these two men could be like… Zancrow felt vulnerable, a prickle at the back of his neck that sent cold sweat running down his back, and a shiver down his spine. It was a terrible feeling – like he was naked and raw, exposed to the elements. He had paused for a while now… Better say something…

'Survive? What do you mean? I never died in the first place.'

Trying to make himself look calm and confident, he grinned, knowing full well that he probably just looked sheepish. His unexpected visitors exchanged a look that Zancrow could not decipher, and taking Zancrow by surprise, Grey-hair stepped forwards, reached out and placed a gloved hand on Zancrow's shoulder. Promptly, he flinched back out of reach, and Grey-hair's eyes gleamed. He'd worked it out. If he'd have done something like put hand on Zancrow's shoulder, the egotistical Flame God Slayer would have smacked his arm away in fury and demanded to know what the hell he was doing. Zancrow was being oddly cautious – usually he was just outright aggressive. Something had happened, and he, Rustyrose, was determined to get to the root of it. Rustyrose glanced sideways at his companion, Kain, who was thankfully staying quiet, and decided to probe Zancrow's thoughts:

'So, do you not remember the friends that you have fought with, through thick and thin, who you laughed and made merry with throughout your days?'

Standing frozen, his mind running on overdrive, Zancrow tried desperately to grasp his own thoughts, but they just appeared in tiny flashes. Like trying to pick up water with hands, the memories trickled through the gaps of his mind like fluid.

'Yeah, of course. Why wouldn't I remember my own friends?' He flashed them a nonchalant smile.

Rustyrose narrowed his eyes. Far too friendly. He couldn't remember them. Maybe they should just show him anyway, he'd leave Grimoire Heart once he found out, whatever state he was in. Sighing, Rustyrose motioned for him to follow him and Kain, and Zancrow, knowing that he's been found out, decided to follow, interested in what this might culminate in.

They had walked for a while now, the only sound audible was their footsteps on the hard earth of the island when Zancrow saw that they were approaching the shore – the densely packed, dark soil gave way to warm yellow sand. Woah. Sand wasn't the only thing on the shore. Sprawled on the flat ground, like a gargantuan metal monster, was a sleek, black ship designed for flight, a crimson, heart-shaped mark emblazoned on the front. The mark instantly recognisable, and Zancrow didn't have to think for very long to work out where he'd seen it before. On his chest. He had this symbol tattooed on his chest. What was it doing there? Maybe it was an organisation. A criminal organisation?! Does the mark prove that you're a member of a secret society? More importantly, why was it on him? What kind of cult did he belong to?

Before his mind could get any more mixed up, Rustyrose had jabbed him in the small of his back, causing him to jump slightly, and throw a dirty look at the offender. Zancrow had been so absorbed by his personal mystery that he had stopped walking, and Rustyrose had taken it upon himself to remind him to keep moving. Rubbing his now-sore back, Zancrow lurched forwards, and continued to make his way to the giant ship. It almost glared at him with its smooth, shining contours. When they had reached the side, Grey-hair shoving ahead of him, Zancrow was really starting to wonder whether he should go through with this or not – was going into a huge black ship with an ominous mark slapped across it with two complete strangers who apparently seemed to know him _really_ such a good idea? However, it was too late now. Placing his palm on the ship, Rustyrose revealed a door that seamlessly blended in with the rest of the metal. Zancrow blinked in surprise; the door was undetectable. Turning to face him, Rustyrose announced:

'Only a member of Grimoire Heart could have done that.'

'Grimoire Heart? What are you talkin' about? What is that? A secret organisation or somethin'?

Zancrow knew that he had been discovered, there was no point hiding it anymore. He'd decided that he'd even prefer lies than being kept continuously kept in the dark.

'Grimoire Heart is a guild, a guild for wizards. You are part of the elite, like us. The Seven Kin of Purgatory.' Rustyrose explained.

Zancrow's jaw just about dropped. Wizard guild? Elite?! He wanted to know more…

'What kind of jobs do we do then? Where are the other, um… (Mental arithmetic is quite difficult when you're undergoing a life changing event.) Four?'

'That can wait until we've shown you a little more…' was Rustyrose's only response.

'Well, can I at least have your names, you know mine, that's unfair!'

Grinning a little at his petulant behaviour, Rustyrose revealed his name, and his companion, Kain's, who was being incredibly subdued. Hoping that this information would be enough to tempt Zancrow to come with them, Rustyrose and Kain strode inside, leaving the curious blonde to follow.

Walking through the halls that seemed to stretch for miles – the thing was even more massive on the inside – Zancrow realised that Grimoire Heart was definitely not the kind of guild that did _good. _It was quite obviously, from the ominous mottos scattered around the place, and the tapestries that hung on the walls, the kind of guild that had very strong ideas about who was 'scum' and who were 'gods'. The thickly woven tapestries depicted wizards striking down the non-magical folk, and of demons destroying the dragons in all their glory, and perhaps most disturbingly of all, a raven-haired mage summoning grotesque demons of all shapes and sizes. For some reason, this image interested Zancrow the most; it seemed to provide an insight into something, something he knew, deep inside of himself. The pitch-black haired wizard was the most intriguing by far. Glaring at the picture in front of him, Zancrow heard words dancing around in his head, echoing slightly, and faint, as if he hadn't heard them properly:

'Forgive me… Man whose name I did not know…' the voice said mournfully.

My name…? It's Zancrow, isn't it...? Where have I heard this voice before? I feel a little… Scared, I guess, when I hear it. Glancing once more at the tapestry, trying to organise his thoughts, he could hear someone breathing sharply over his shoulder. Mustering the blackest look he could, a very pissed Zancrow turned slowly and attempted to lock eyes with the perpetrator. Surprisingly enough, it was Kain. Leaning forwards, he poked a fat finger at the image of the mage, and muttered in a great hurry:

'Th-ld-ref!'

Zancrow stared at him with wide eyes, and exclaimed angrily:

'The hell was that?!'

Kain looked down at the floor until help arrived in the shape of a gloved poet.

'Allow me to translate. What Kain here means is that wizard there, who has given birth to countless demons, who has plunged the world into chaos in eras before our own; the one who will deliver us into a new age where wizards will live in an Ultimate Magical World, where non-magic users will either die or live Hell on Earth; who will allow us to use our magic, unburdened by laws; that mage, is our Lord Zeref!'

Oh, that confirmed it. They were a madcap cult. How did he get into this mess, surely he wasn't so gullible?

'Right, that's it'

Rustyrose's speech about a glorious new world was cut short by Zancrow's blunt outburst.

'That is what?'

'I've had enough of your creepy, oh, 'everyone can die apart from us' cult, it's freaking me out.'

'This, is no cult Zancrow. Grimoire Heart is a real organisation. It was – _is –_the strongest dark guild in all of Fiore, one of the Balam alliance.'

Zancrow didn't know what a Balam Alliance was, but he did understand the 'strongest dark guild' part. Was he really a part of all this? Did he really get sucked into this, and worse, actually believed all this rubblish?

'Well I don't like it. And I'm leaving. See ya.'

Rustyrose made one last effort to recapture his attention. They might as well show Zancrow what they had found. Anyway, Rustyrose wanted to know himself. He'd better show him the book…

'Well, don't you want to know who you are?'

Zancrow froze, turning back around to face Rustyrose, eyes ablaze with hidden curiosity. Jackpot. Now to make him a little more desperate…

'Because I know of a notebook that our master left behind, and I happen to have knowledge of it being about you.'

Rustyrose paused here and shrugged in an overly-dramatic way.

'No matter how much we begged and pleaded with Master Hades, he would never show us the contents of that book, and kept it under magical lock and key. Now, however, the enchantments seem to have broken, and you are free to read the entries at your leisure.'

Utterly surprised, Zancrow felt a tugging sensation as he realised that he wanted to read that book so badly that it was almost causing him physical pain. What on Earthland could be so secret about his own life (which he could still not remember), that it was sealed away with spells to keep even the most intrigued out? He had to know now… But he couldn't show them how deeply he desired that information…. Then he's be easily wrapped around their fingers, easily to manipulate, to blackmail. It would be easy enough for them to say, 'Do what we want, in exchange for snippets of information' to quench his thirst for knowledge.

'Well don't I have right to read this, if it's all about me? And even so, why haven't you touched it? Didn't you want to know?'

This threw Rustyrose for a second. In reality, he hadn't read the book because he had hoped Zancrow would have explained it to him, but since he so obviously lacked his memories, the best course of action would probably be to lie.

'I have touched it. I didn't read it because the book will not respond to me or Kain. It won't respond to anybody except from you, since I have reason to believe that the book is about you, and you alone.'

That seemed like a convincing lie, after all, magic can achieve amazing feats of wonder that we can only begin to fathom… That concept wouldn't work however. Master Hades is dead, all the enchantments binding the book will have dissipated. But Zancrow is missing his memories, so there's no reason why he shouldn't believe it. To his relief, Zancrow seemed satisfied with his response, and letting out a breath that he had been silently holding, Rustyrose and Kain led Zancrow to their master's office.

Ha! How stupid did they think he was? That was an outright lie, even magic can't do that! Once an owner leaves, every enchantment is lifted, you can't just pick and choose which ones stay and which go! Well, he was assuming that this Master Hades was far enough from them that the enchantments have disappeared, it was the only explanation… They probably wanted him to explain the notes or something, things that only he would know. Well, they were going to be disappointed. His memories were clearly absent, so no divulged secrets for them! …Or for him too, really. But there were probably some juicy morsels of information in that book, so he didn't mind at all. Truth be told, he was a little worried about reading the notes. He didn't like the character he was discovering he was, and the book may just dash his hopes and make him feel even worse about himself. Well he'd rather the truth. But ignorance is bliss, so they say… They walked together – well, more like Rustyrose and Kain together, and Zancrow staying well away – to Hades' office, where the mysterious notebook lurked.

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_**I hope that you enjoyed Chapter 2! I can't wait to get the next chapter on here, it's certainly interesting to write. I hope to add quite a few more chapters, and make it into a good adventure. And again, thank you for reading!**_


	3. An Unpleasant Recollection

**_I'm so sorry that I haven't put another chapter on for ages! I promise I'm not going to give up on this! I've got the plan for the next chapter written already. So... This chapter will have a little more action in it than what's taken place before. I hope that you enjoy!_**

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'This ship is frigging huge,' thought Zancrow. The three of them had been hiking up the corridors for about fifteen minutes now, with many twists and turns along the way. If the ship looked massive from the outside, it was nothing compared to what it was on the inside; the size of a small town! A clever enchantment, and Zancrow quickly got distracted, trying to work out in his head how you would go about doing something like that. How do you make something occupy more space than it really does? Are we all just really small then, when we're inside? Or is this an enchantment to distort our sense of space? After he realised he'd completely lost track of where he was supposed to be going, he shook his head, clearing it of these thoughts – he needed to focus on the mystery at hand.

'It's just up ahead.'

The sound of Rustyrose's voice jolted Zancrow from his musings of space distortion, and he took another good look around him. The corridor was eerily silent, as if uninhabited. Were they the only ones here? Surely the ship could hold thousands of people? He looked to his left, and a gleaming, obviously regularly polished door instantly caught his attention. It looked like any other door in the vessel, apart from the fact that it had letters, each at least six inches high, scorched into the front of it, forming the word in pitch-black letters:

'ZANCROW'.

Noticing that he had found the door, Rustyrose said amusedly,

'Yes, that's your room. Go in if you want to.'

All of a sudden, curiosity gripped Zancrow, and he hastily shoved the door open. He wasn't really sure what he expected, but the room was quite pleasant. The walls were painted in a warm, off-white colour, and thin, burgundy curtains hung above the window. However, the way he had chosen to decorate elsewhere was definitely questionable. The white chest-of-drawers had almost tribal-looking patterns seared all over it, twisting around the handles, down the sides, and swirling on the top. Heaped on top of it were many pictures, presumably of his fellow guild members, and tons of seemingly random items, each with a small note beside it. One was a little red stone, with a message next to it, proclaiming:

'Found this on Galuna Island. Got told it was infused with demon energies, so I kept it.'

Another was a scrap of cloth with a note pinned to it which read:

'Used this to track down our target. They didn't need it after we found him, so I asked to keep it.'

Zancrow winced slightly at this entry, feeling more than a little sorry for the one that they had hunted down, and turned to the pictures. One was an old group photo of what he guessed to be the Seven Kin of Purgatory (there were seven of them, of course). Casting his eyes over the scene, he found himself right away, his spiky blonde hair giving him away. It was just past shoulder length in this photo, and he looked to be perhaps eleven-ish. He was grinning very widely – obviously he was a very confident person, even as a child… His personality was a complete mystery, but he didn't seem to be too pleasant, even quite egotistical… The young girl – younger than him – who was standing next to him looked very shy, looking down, but when this picture was taken, he was clearly ignoring her, more focused on smiling. A fairly young-looking Rustyrose and Kain were recognisable, but the other three faces were an uncertainty. A rather dark-skinned man with a shock of thick brown hair, a young, beautiful woman long black hair like silk, and a goat…man…thing. Another picture flashed and glimmered in the light overheard and caught Zancrow's sharp scarlet eyes. Eagerly replacing the photo of the Seven Kin, he picked up this new gleaming treasure – his new insight into his past.

This picture was of him and the tiny girl, but they both seemed to be older, he looked about thirteen, maybe fourteen. His arm was around the pink-haired kid and the insane grin was still plastered across his face. She however, only smiled gently, still apparently nervous. Zancrow realised now that this must be his friend, but try as he might, he could not remember her. In his first stream of recalled memories when he had first woken up on the island, he had seen a younger Seven Kin, he knew that now. Her face had been an utter mystery, but here it was, clear as day, and still nothing. Zancrow sat heavily down on the bed, almost glaring at the picture, trying to make himself remember, when a sudden sound of someone clearing their throat made him look up. It was Rustyrose, and he had his arms crossed, looking interestedly around Zancrow's room.

'We were never allowed in here, you know. You'd lose your temper every time we tried. It was like a holy land that no one was allowed to breach apart from yourself.'

When he received no answer from Zancrow, who was utterly absorbed with this picture, with a kind of strained expression on his face, Rustyrose decided to tell him more about Grimoire Heart.

'That's Meredy.'

'Hm?' Was the only reply he received.

'That's Meredy. Your closest friend. You were with her the majority of the time, and when you weren't with her, you were by yourself.'

'My friend…' Zancrow muttered, then sighed. Nothing. He might as well give up. The mystery of the book tempted him now. But when he got up from the bed (the headboard of which was tastefully decorated with more elegant tribal patterns), leaning forwards to replace the photo, he heard a voice echo in his mind. A young girl's voice that weakly yelled in surprise and horror.

'Zancrow?!'

He felt his own lips move then, knowing that what he said now was what he had said which such malevolence back then:

'You are no longer a member of Grimoire Heart.'

'Pardon?'

Rustyrose had picked up on his quiet memory immediately, desperately hoping that Zancrow's memories had returned.

'Nothing…' he retorted quickly, replacing the picture and striding out of the room before he could get flashes of any more unpleasant memories.

'Now, where's this office, huh? He inquired in what he hoped was a cheerful manor, trying to promptly recover his old demeanour before anyone noticed that he was distinctly miserable. He _knew _that he had done something cruel back then. To his own friend. What could have driven him to do something like that? To gleefully shun his own nakama from the guild they both had a livelihood in? Mind you, he didn't exactly seem like an overly sweet person from all accounts… 'Focus on the office, the book, that's what you want' he mentally chided to himself. Turning to Rustyrose and Kain, he pointed towards a gleaming cherry wood door and inquired,

'This is it, ain't it?'

The question hung and echoed in the frigid, dusty air of the corridors, but finally Rustyrose and Kain both nodded, signalling to him that he should go inside. Letting a moment pass in silence, Zancrow cautiously pushed the weighty door open and inched through it, suddenly apprehensive. It was a seemingly normal office inside, complete with an enormous, and expensive-looking, oak desk. There were shelves upon shelves of tomes behind, stretching towards the inexplicably high ceiling, the thick wooden shelves almost seeming to converge at the top. Zancrow felt distinctly dizzy and nauseous as he craned his head up, trying in vain to see the top. Crap! He leapt as he was punched in the back, hard, making him rock forwards. This time the criminal was Kian, who seemed to not know his own strength, and was standing back, face red in embarrassment. Zancrow glared at him for a long while, hoping to make him uncomfortable – this was twice in one day – then turned and made his way to the massive wooden slab that was Hades' workspace. A slim black book, ragged and innocent looking, with a cover of leather, sat limp and out of place on it. Very wary, Zancrow picked it up by the corner, and held it at a distance, taking note of every nook, cranny and pock-mark of the book before finally opening it to a random page, and began to read:

'Zancrow (it said on the yellowing paper), has consumed the blood for the first time at 8 years old. I had my suspicions that his body would be too weak and frail at this age, but it was crucial for the change to begin as soon as possible. Thankfully, his body has managed to survive, but his temper has now become extremely hot, and his aggressive behaviour has drastically increased. His physical and magical strength however, have phenomenally increased, making me think that this experiment is not a failure after all.'

As Zancrow flicked thorough more of the pages, his heart sinking to somewhere around his stomach, he read passage upon passage about his violent and explosive attitude, how much of the blood he had ingested, increased 'dosages', when he got sick, how fast he got better, and then he knew… He was just an experiment. Nothing more. Not a real human being, capable of complex thoughts and emotions. Just an experiment. He was being fed _blood_ and notes were being taken to see how much he had changed. Why would someone _do _something like that?! That's disgusting! That's… That's repulsive! And that memory… With the tall man and the goblet….filled with that foul liquid. That was blood. Zancrow gagged then, dropping the book and clutching the desk with both hands, leaning over it and retching. He really thought that he was going to be sick, and he didn't give a damn about Rustyrose and Kain, who he knew would be staring at him. Thankfully, they weren't saying anything, and Zancrow tried desperately to pull himself together, acting like nothing had happened. He chanced a quick looked over his shoulder at them, and could see questions burning in their eyes. Ignoring this, he once again picked up the little notebook that was brimming with all things ghastly, and flicked to an earlier page. Scrawled across the page in crimson ink, the letters spelt out:

'Source of Demon Blood: Chiroptera.'

Demon blood? So it gets worse. And to think that he's actually woken up this morning thinking that today may be a little better. Slightly stunned, but oddly none too surprised at the turn of events, he wondered what demon blood would do to a human being. It would explain why he looked so different for a start… And why his behaviour was so unpredictable, according to the notes… He felt dirty and contaminated, like he was controlled by something inside of him that was bursting to get free from its prison inside his soul. Rage was not rage, it was the ugly creature inside rearing and bearing its fangs, razing all before it to the ground. Zancrow was just its puppet, its tool in its quest to purge and destroy. His heart and soul and mind were corrupted, merely controlled by this beast spawned from hellfire. He felt like a slave to his emotions, a slave to the devil who possessed him. Emotions did not feel like just emotions anymore – they were giving in. Zancrow could not bear to read anymore. Sharply snapping the book shut with one hand, his back to his audience, he suddenly noticed with horror that his face felt hot and wet. No way was he crying. He hoped to God that they hadn't noticed. Surreptitiously wiping his eyes, he refused to let his emotions get a hold of him, and said in as strong a voice as he could muster:

'Where is he?

Rustyrose's voice rang strangely in the chamber.

'Who do you mean?'

'Don't play dumb with me. You know what I mean. Who was the master? Where is he now?

He had spun around now, meeting Rustyrose's level gaze with his own furious one. What would he do with their Master once he found him though? Hurt him? Question him? Force him to tell the truth? Zancrow wasn't sure, all he knew was that he needed to see him. Now.

'Master Hades is dead.'

The words hung in the room, the echoes making them sound empty and hollow, and Rustyrose spoke with no emotion, no feeling, no sorrow.

Disappointment mixed with a strange emotion Zancrow could not identify cascaded down upon him, and the overwhelming surge made him slam the evil black notebook down on the table, and exclaim in a voice that shook with barely contained anger and upset,

'I've had enough of all this goddamn freaky crap.'

Rustyrose and Kain daren't speak, for fear of triggering a real rage-fuelled outburst they knew he was capable of. What was perhaps more frightening was the fact that, as he did not have any memories, Zancrow could not remember his blindingly hot temper, and as a result, did now know how to keep it under control. Though, he seemed to be calming down… That was something that they had never seen before. Him actually trying to keep his anger in, trying to stop it from taking over. Usually he was just a beast on a rampage until Master Hades told him enough was enough. When it came to his temper, he ignored even Meredy at times. Perhaps his experiences had given him a new outlook. Rustyrose looked to him, seeing that he was about to speak.

'And this time, I'm really leaving. No more games.'

Rustyrose so dearly wanted to know about the contents of the book, and he knew that he would never be allowed to set eyes upon it – after seeing the way Zancrow reacted to it, there must be something repulsive and macabre in there. He had to know. Knowing Kain felt the same way from his hungry expression, Rustyrose decided that he would wrestle that notebook from the blonde's cold dead hands. He had hoped that Zancrow would have stayed, memories intact, and explained all he knew. It was a shame that it had to be this way. Building up magical power in his body, preparing to use it, feeling Kain at his side do the same, he advanced on his once-ally, who did not even flinch, back away or even looked surprised, just merely raised hot fists, black fire beginning to bloom on them.

So it was a fight to the death, huh? Zancrow knew that they wanted the book, but he didn't know they wanted it _that_ desperately. Quick as a flash, he put the notebook into the pocket of his baggy red trousers, and swiftly covered it with the cloth that went over them. The book would be safe in there, there was no chance of it being plucked out of the pocket in the midst of the fight he knew was fast approaching. Being a wizard himself – and a skilled one at that – he could sense the magic power building in the two – both felt like… Forbidden magic? Magic that should never be used… Probing deeper into the magic he could feel, he knew that Rustyrose was building up his power slowly – using weaker attacks first, then using stronger and stronger spells to get an insight into Zancrow's fighting style and ability. The Flame God lazily flicked his eyes over to Kain, and sensed that the massive mage was prepared to go all out from the first second. Their tactic was blindingly obvious and simple – Kain would charge straight for him, using a hell of a lot of power, grabbing Zancrow's attention right away and making him fight with all focus on his charge. Rustyrose, however, from the side lines, would make the odd strong jab at him, wearing the God Slayer down, and when Kain and Zancrow got tired, would deliver the finishing blow. Zancrow rolled those huge red orbs, and in the space of a few more seconds, worked out his own tactic. It was two against one, so he had to be clever, and use as much trickery as he could. He had to start off slow, take a few hits and get a feel for their own ability and style. Once his magic power was high, and Kain was losing his touch somewhat, he would strike Rustyrose as quickly as he could with a fairly powerful burst of magic, he didn't want to wear himself out. Afterwards, he would deal with Kain. He knew that they were on fairly equal footing, the fight could easily go either way, so it was all about being cautious. Keeping his guard up for Kain trying to help his partner seemed like a smart choice. Rustyrose then laughed, a cruel, condescending laugh.

'Do you really think you can defeat us in battle? We, who have seven more years of experience than yourself?'

Zancrow was understandably confused.

''Seven more years of experience'? What are you on about?'

'I mean, that when you remained on the island of Tenroujima, not only did you seemingly die, and rise from the dead, you were also caught up in the Fairy's Spell, the Fairy Sphere, which caused you to fall into a comatose state for seven years, never aging, whilst the rest of the world; unaware and unaffected, has gone on. You have had, in a sense, seven empty years.'

Having had so many different surprising and unforeseen turns of events in one day, Zancrow couldn't honestly feel much shock. He had thought that the photographs had looked a little fishy, but had decided to dismiss his concern in favour of the mystery of the book. He now realised that in the photo where he had looked about eleven, Kain and Rustyrose appeared to be about thirteen, at a guess. Being around eighteen himself (Of course, he could not remember, and was not _completely _certain), it would make sense for Kain and Rustyrose to be around twenty years old now. But they weren't. They were older. Quite a lot older, on closer inspection. Doing the maths in his head, he calculated that Kain and Rustyrose must both be around twenty-seven now, and instead of him being around twenty-five, he had missed seven years of his life, staying young at eighteen. Well, he would be more flexible and supple in a fight, he had that advantage. He was intently focused on getting away right now, not fussed about panicking and worrying about the time that he had lost.

Perhaps… A speech? As a distraction? Would that work? For a minute, all attention would be on him, but maybe, just maybe, their guard would be down… But Zancrow wasn't good with his words. With his fists, certainly, and usually, they did the talking. But speaking to his two ex-comrades may just allow him to strike the first blow, and escape without much battling taking place… It seemed a good tactic, and it was time to put it to use…

'I don't_ care_ how much of my life is missing.'

His fists burst into flames.

'I don't _care _that you seem to think that you're better than me, because of this.'

He advanced on them, his broad shoulders taught with anticipation.

I don't _care_ that our Master is dead.'

Closer.

'I don't even care that I couldn't remember my own name.'

Close enough to see his flaming, blood-red eyes.

'And do you know what I care about the least?'

Head held low, he looked up at the two, a wicked, malevolent smirk stretched across his face.

'I don't care…'

He had bent his knees, hands at his right side, forming a swirling ball of black fire.

'That I'm half-'

The flames grew ever larger, casting an ominous black shadow over the room.

'Goddamn-'

He sprang forwards, fire now blazing in each hand and Rustyrose leapt upwards to meet him at his height.

'DEMON!' Zancrow shrieked, smashing a burning fist downwards on Rustyrose's head, other hand thrown upwards, madly clenched as if he had claws. One eye was shut, his tongue lolling horribly out of his mouth. Rustyrose's limp body crashed to the floor, as Zancrow landed lightly on his feet, facing Kain. Holding his arms out wide, he challenged Kain with a peal of ringing laughter. It was a truly insane laugh, and Zancrow, arms still spread wide, leant over to one side, his psychotic leer dominating his face.

Intimidated, but still determined to get vengeance for his comrade, Kain rushed at Zancrow, fist raised.

'Uhahahaha! I don't care! I_ really_ don't care!' Zancrow yelled as he dodged the punch, and rapidly replied with a strong flame-fuelled strike of his own, knocking the huge mage backwards, smashing him – with a sickening crunch – into the wall of the ship. Promptly pulling himself back up, Kain launched his massive form at Zancrow who had now stopped laughing in favour of concentrating on the fight. They met in the air, Kain's aggressive kick parried by the somewhat smaller, but no less powerful fire mage. He looked ready to kill, his knife-like teeth bared, eyes fixed fiercely on his foe.

Jumping back, they both knew that the time had come to strike their finishing blows. As Kain fumbled about with 'Mr Cursey', Zancrow summoned his seal with a vast sweep of his arm, a black-as-night seal that burnt with an eerie dark light.

'Enjin no…'

He readied one of his most powerful attacks at full force, with as much magical strength as he could muster. Kain had started to pluck out one of his hairs when Zancrow released his magic, such a massive wave of it, that Zancrow felt a primitive prickle of excitement deep inside of him.

'DOGOU!'

The Flame God's Bellow easily blasted a clean, round hole in the wall of the ship, carrying Kain with it, and at the moment the pulse hit him, Zancrow stood fiercely triumphant inside the vessel, his devilish smile in place.

'If you mess with divine flames, you'll sure as hell end up getting divine punishment!'

The last thing that Kain heard as he was catapulted into the sky was the sound of maniacal laughter, cackling in victory.

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_**I hoped that you liked this chapter, and I really will have the next one up soon! Any reviews would be gratefully accepted, as this is my first fanfiction. See you next chapter!**_


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